Birthright
by creatoriginsane
Summary: "You might be the Queen's Watchdog, but you do not know everything." In order to exact his revenge, Ciel Phantomhive requires the aid of someone else.


**Birthright**

A/N: I have returned. I had difficulty writing for Kuroshitsuji for the past five or so years, and hopefully I'm now able to write properly for this. I just graduated college last week and have spent the past three weeks conceptualizing this work, and the past four days writing this chapter with the hope that you find this as interesting as I do. Apologies in advance for spelling and grammatical errors, as I seldome (actually never) check once I finish, but I would (hopefully) later on edit these.

* * *

 _"You might be the Queen's Watchdog, but you do not know everything." In order to exact his revenge, Ciel Phantomhive requires the aid of someone else._

* * *

First Arc: The Return

Part One: The Visit

* * *

"Ma il mio mistero è chiuso i me; il nome mio nessun saprà!" (But my secret is hidden within me; none will know my name!)

 _\- Turandot, Giacomo Puccini (1924)_

* * *

In the darkness of an underground chamber, new chains rattle against old walls and fresh screams are ripped from an ageing throat. Blood sputters from a broken mouth, sweat and saliva drip to the stone floor. Dim torches hang above them. A hooded figure lights incense and the smell of lavender mingles with the putrid stench of urine. A man wearing dirtied regal garments is strapped to a metal chair bolted to the ground, his face bloodied and bruised, his wrists and ankles straining from the ropes, the same rope tied about his neck.

A masked assailant steps before him, asks, "Which is your dominant hand?"

He shakes his head vigorously, screams, "No, please!"

"Right it is, then." A smile could be heard from the masked man. She turns to one of her two fellows, to the masked man holding a pair of gardening shears. She commands him, "Cut off a finger."

"I honestly don't know!" The man strains against the ropes, crying in fear when the large man approaches him, holding out the shears above him. He could see the torchlight glint from the blades, and struggles against his bindings.

The hooded figure lights another incense stick as the masked man cuts off man's little finger.

The smell of lavender does nothing to mute the man's screams.

"Where is he?" The woman repeated.

The man hissed in pain, trying his best to catch his breath and regain control. He bites his lower lip as he breathes unevenly. The masked man approaches him again.

He stutters, "Hiding in London."

"London is quite a large place." The man replied, raising the shears to wipe the blade against his dark clothing.

He shakes his head and meets the man's amber eyes. He admits, "No one knows where he is."

The woman asks next, "You're one of his closest associates, aren't you?"

He turns to her, exclaims, "I am, but he doesn't tell me everything."

"Second finger." She points to his other hand.

"Please, I beg you!"

He hadn't even finished his words, his left hand's little finger was cut clean off his hand.

The hooded figure lights a third stick, lemon this time.

The three watch as the man squirms and hisses, struggles and cries. His tears fall from his face as he screams in agony. His blood drips and dirties the rest of the floor, and they are sure that it'd be quite a nightmarish sight should they light the place completely. They listen to his screams patiently, waiting obediently until he has tired himself.

The woman breaks the silence with a suggestive tone in her voice, "Third?"

"No!" The man visibly shakes, energy and rigor back in his pained body, "There's a party, a party!"

The woman hums knowingly, "There's always a party in London."

The man screams incessantly, "Two weeks from now, he'll be there. He has to!"

The masked man turns to the hooded figure, "Does he speak the truth?"

A voice erupts from the darkness of the cloak, "Yes."

"So the invitation was right." The masked woman mutters before turning to the man, speaking to him in such a respectful tone, "I apologize for our method, but we had to confirm our information."

He couldn't believe it. He attempts to beg in the smallest voice he could, "Please let me go."

"And risk our master's reputation?" The woman laughs mockingly before turning sharply to the masked man, ordering him as if a brute animal, "Kill him."

He nods. "It shall be done." and his shears across the man's neck; a quick and bloody death.

The hooded figure lights another incense, and another, and another until the putrid scent is replaced by lemon and lavender.

* * *

And the next day is a particularly beautiful day, the sky reminiscent of the idyllic life of the countryside. The sun barely peeking past the clouds, and the cool wind crisp in its freshness. In a manor in the outskirts of the city of London, a young earl wakes to the sight of pale sunlight streaming into his eyes.

"It is time to wake up, young master." A sharply-dressed man pulls back the rest of the curtains.

"I am still a child, Sebastian." The young earl calls groggily, "Let me have my sleep."

"Ah," The man, Sebastian, says amused at the child's reaction, "but you are not just a child."

"I know." The child replies as he sits up in his bed, his hands out of under the covers, placed expectantly upon his lap. And almost automatically the man produces a newspaper and places it on the child's awaiting hands.

"There's been another kidnapping." He says, before stepping back and rolling over a cart of tea and light biscuits.

And so begins another typical day in the life of England's youngest earls, the young Ciel Phantomhive, former heir to, and current owner of, the prestigious Funtom Company. Even at his tender age, he holds the rank of one of the state's more influential nobles, as well as the title of the Queen's Watchdog.

"The queen sees no threat in these. Until she has given me the order, I will not pursue it."

"So vicious, young master." Sebastian chides, watching Ciel's disinterested expression as he glosses over the front page. "Someone has asked for an audience with you."

Ciel places the newspaper beside him, having lost interest in its headlining news and picks up the cup of tea. "And I assume that it is about these kidnappings?"

"The Grandier matriarch requests an audience with you."

Ciel stares at the cup in his hands and murmurs a familiar name, "Aunt Evelyn?"

"I took the liberty of perusing the letter." The butler presents the said letter as the young earl takes a sip of the tea, a refreshing blend of honeysuckle and lime, adding, "It seems she intends to invite you for tea."

"You insolent butler." Ciel glares at Sebastian, clearly insulted by the butler's insolence. He mutters, "Reading through my private correspondence now, are you?"

The butler continues as if nothing, "She asks if you are available this afternoon."

The boy frowns, complains, "And you tell me this only now?"

And Sebastian merely continues, "A messenger is waiting downstairs."

He places the cup down, obviously vexed about the entire ordeal, and spoke under his breath, "That woman never knows the proper time to ask, nor the proper method."

"What is your reply?" The butler pressed.

The boy's eyes pierce through the butler's cool gaze. "Tell the messenger that I accept her invitation."

Sebastian bows in acknowledgement. "As you wish, my lord."

It is strange how the young earl had so hastily accepted an invitation that would be considered rude by most noble families, but perhaps it was because that he had nothing scheduled for today. Could it be that the invitation was sent only on the morning of the event because that knowledge? Despite it being an interesting thought, the butler doesn't let it preoccupy him.

He is, however, quite preoccupied with the messenger himself. The use of such messengers on horses were considered old-fashioned, if not archaic. There was the telephone, after all, and any member of the noble class would know that invitations are not to be sent at such late notice.

Perhaps this Grandier matriarch was such a dear old friend of the Phantomhives that his young master couldn't possibly say no to even the most unceremonious invitation?

Ciel's visible eyes narrows at the thoughtful look on Sebastian's face.

"If you want to say something, spit it out." The boy demands.

The butler doesn't answer.

 _Who could this Grandier matriarch be?_

* * *

Several leagues away from the Phantomhive manor lies the Grandier estate. The manor architecture is unremarkable despite its large size, but has its impressive gardens to boast. From afar, the estate is a verdant haven filled with fine trees and trimmed shrubbery, with bright and vibrant flowers against a carpet of grass.

The front lawn is enclosed by a low hedge, within in sits a fountain at the center and surrounded by various flowering shrubs of the summer season. The eastern side of the manor features a large, two-storey greenhouse, connected to the manor itself, which houses a variety of herbal plants among others. At its west, there is a hedge maze which has in its center a gazebo for entertaining guests. Behind the manor is a vast garden befitting to host any noble, even the queen.

The manor itself is simple, a three-storey mansion separated into two wings: the east, and the west. At the east lies the library, the kitchen, the parlor, the two dining rooms. At the west lies the ballroom and the gallery. For each wing there is a respective drawing room and morning room to receive and entertain guests. The grand hall of the manor presents the interior of the mansion in a near-perfect symmetry. Parallel to the vestibule is the conservatory which, although separate from the main greenhouse, presents flowering plants whilst acting as a sun lounge.

Flower arrangements punctuate the interior of the manor, aside from gilded bronze figures and delicate-looking porcelain statuettes. The maintenance of all the plants would be a tedious task for any servant, and it is only be reasonable that there is a great number of them in the employment. There are fifteen of them, four maids, two cooks, four gardeners, three butlers, and two sentries.

Of course, not all of them require to be present as they are quite often assigned something else besides their household tasks.

One of which was the young sentry, Robert, who had delivered the invitation to the Phantomhive estate earlier that morning. He was the lightest on his feet and the fastest rider out of all the servants who knew how to. Now, he stands quite out of breath in the library.

The brunette teen reports to the Grandier matriarch, voice crisp and clear: "The young earl accepts."

The aforementioned woman turns to him and nods in acknowledgment, before turning to a butler stationed beside her. "Prepare the east drawing room."

The butler bows slightly. "It shall be done, Lady Evelyn."

A maid beside him asks, "Tea?"

The matriarch thinks about it for a moment before answering, "The mild, forest berry blend."

"A good choice." The maid nods, "And pastries?"

"Simple sweets would suffice." She laughs lightly. "I doubt he would have the appetite for them during our conversation."

"Of course."

The two servants bow slightly before exiting the room. Roberts blinks and swallows a hard gulp. The Grandier matriarch breaths deeply before turning her back to him. She looks out the window and into the gardens, admiring the rich landscape carved by human hands, the vibrant flowers and green grass. This estate would be known in England as one which is quite like the Garden of Eden itself.

Even with its sinners.

She clears her throat and cranes her neck over her shoulder to glance at the teen. "How goes the harvest?"

Roberts answers without a beat, "You should expect a successful exchange in two weeks."

The woman smirks.

"Good."

* * *

Meanwhile in the Phantomhive estate, the young earl scrutinizes the contents of the earlier letter over his mid-morning tea. It was written in such a fine script, as if the sender had thought about its contents thoroughly before penning the letter itself.

 _July 15th Year 1888_

 _To the Earl of Phantomhive:_

 _Warmest greetings to the youngest earl in the court of her majesty, Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Your acceptance of the title is a feat in itself, despite of the tragedy befalling your parents. You are equally feared and admired by the noble court of her majesty; one which I think is rightfully so._

 _Your position is of paramount importance to the queen, and I, as her majesty's most loyal head of intelligence, value your role in her majesty's desires for the betterment of the state. As such, I am extending to you an invitation to discuss your eminent future as the Queen's Watchdog. I wish to speak to you this afternoon at the Kinsleigh Estate, located in the township of Guildford. It is roughly over an hour's journey by carriage, but I hope that you will agree to this meeting._

 _Signed,_

 _Marchioness Evelyn Samantha R. Grandier_

Grandier. It was a name known in high-class social circles as synonymous to the reputable brand of wine, tea, and beer. Ciel had heard of its owner, the Frenchman-turned-English-businessman, Richard Pierre M. Grandier, but hadn't thought of his father's associate, the heiress of the Renard family to be the one to marry him. Ciel had known her before as his 'other-worldly' aunt, as she would tell him of stories from the countries she had visited when she would visit. Beyond her loving demeanor, he knows nothing else of her.

"I don't recall any previous correspondence with the Grandier matriarch, young master." Sebastian comments lightly as he pours the young noble his second cup of tea.

"Because there hadn't been any." Ciel huffs as he folds the letter. "She answers directly to the queen."

He eyes the folded letter in his hands critically; internally groaning as he dislikes any form of pompous language.

The butler smiles. "It must be of utmost importance, then."

He sighs before taking the refilled cup to his mouth. He murmurs, "If it were, she would have taken care of it herself."

Sebastian blinks, comments thoughtfully, "You seem to have great confidence in her."

Ciel lowers the cup to turn to his butler, and narrows his eyes at him. "I don't." He grounds out. "If she had contacted me before contacting the queen, then something must have gone wrong."

"In what manner?"

"She was one of my predecessor's associates," He omits his personal memories of her as he takes a sip of tea before continuing, "and all I've heard of her was that she handles the Nightwatchers."

"Nightwatchers?" The butler asked.

Ciel huffs, sneers. "A shoddy term for England's spies."

The butler laughs. _A funny term, indeed._

* * *

The aforementioned Grandier matriarch was formerly known as Evelyn Samantha O. Renard, an esteemed woman of both English and French blood that inherited her mother's sly way with words and her father's quick wit. She was intelligent, highly observant, and quite competitive as a child, and has used her skills in observation and her outward charisma to further her standing as a young woman.

When she was fifteen years of age, she had met Queen Victoria and Claudia Phantomhive through her mother, Maria Evangeline, and had become her majesty's second, and England's umpteenth, spymaster. When she was sixteen, she had met Vincent Phantomhive through the queen herself, and became part of the secret organization of her majesty's Evil Nobles. When she was seventeen, she wedded the heir to the Kinsleigh company, the nineteen-year-old Richard Grandier. And at eighteen, she was with-child.

Now, at thirty-seven years old and with three children, she prepares herself for the challenge that is to come, the challenge that is the twelve-year-old Ciel Phantomhive. How would she address him, then? As her nephew, her late comrade's child? Or as he should be addressed, as the earl himself? Her mind is suddenly filled with such thoughts, all her life, she had never encountered this before. And even with her knowledge of his misfortunes and the tragedy that had befallen him and his family, would she console him? Offer him guidance?

A striking voice disrupts her thoughts, "Flowers, Lady Evelyn?"

She turns to the source of the question, and sees the newest addition to the servants of the household with a fresh bouquet of lilies and roses in her hands. Though Evelyn had recruited this woman a little over two years ago, the woman performed her duties as if she had been with the family ever since.

Evelyn smiles at the thoughtful gesture, but says, "I don't think the young earl would appreciate them."

"A pity." The woman looks down at the flowers in her hands and frowns. "I just picked these earlier today."

Evelyn knows that the frown holds a sardonic jibe.

"Then place them." She replies curtly, tone cold. "I don't care."

The woman ponders her sudden chilly demeanor, comments, "You seem to be preoccupied with something, Lady Evelyn."

She turns away from the woman's prying eyes. "It's nothing."

The woman places the flowers in an empty vase on a table below the Grandier family portrait in the library before admiring the picture with a smirk.

"Your daughter is returning today, is she not?"

Evelyn shoots a narrowed glare towards the woman, hisses, "Her return does not concern you."

"Apologies." The woman bows slightly. "I forget my position." She murmured past a knowing grin.

Evelyn breathes deeply, knows that this woman is testing her patience, knows that this woman already knows of her discomforting thoughts, before speaking to her with a tone befitting the esteemed matriarch of the Grandiers, "When the young earl arrives, you will keep yourself to the garden. Understood?"

The woman bows deeply and responds with the same clarity, "It shall be done, my lady."

* * *

Later that day, a young woman arrives in London from a ship hailing from France. She is the youngest child, and only daughter, of the Grandiers, Alice Marguerite. Having inherited her father straw blonde hair and her mother's glassy blue eyes, she would be difficult to find amongst the crowd if not for her taking upon the role of finder instead of 'findee.'

"Arlene! Gustav!" She exclaims over the murmur of the port crowd upon spotting two of the oldest servants in the Grandier household, sliding past people in order to get closer to them.

"There she is!" The maid, Arlene, waves to her. "Stop waving so excessively, Miss Alice!" She calls out to the young woman.

Alice maintains the frantic movement unbefitting a woman of her standing. "You wouldn't be able to recognize me otherwise." She replied upon being a arm's length away from them.

The butler, Gustav, clears his throat and takes the luggage from Alice's hands, internally wondering why she had brought so little with her in her return. He comments, "It's a terrible time to return to London, Miss Alice."

"But what matters is that you've arrived." Arlene embraces her. "The family misses you terribly."

Alice laughs as she embraces the woman in return. "I wrote letters!"

"And sent gifts." Gustav notes. "A great number of them."

"We thank you for your generosity." Arelene releases the young woman, and whispers to her mischeviously, "Unfortunately your mother hasn't."

Alice whispers playfully in reply, "I couldn't marry a Frenchman without her approval now, could I?"

The two women share giggle amongst themselves, to which Gustav expresses his dislike by clearing his throat.

"Hush now, Miss Alice!" His tone is strict, quite reminiscent of the tone he'd used on her as a child, as he continues to lecture her, "Gossip is unbefitting for an English woman."

Alice hides her giggle behind her hand, before straightening her posture. Gustav nods to Arlene and they make their way to the parked carriage, but not without the occasional giggle and scandalous whisper erupting from the two women.

Gustav thinks that Alice has downright ignored his scolding and instead continues to swoon over her memories of the fantastic place, clasping Arelene's hands as soon as the carriage door is closed, "Oh, you should have come with me to France, Arlene!"

The maid eyes him mockingly, jokes lightly, "And leave the house to this old butler here? Can't even make proper tea for the love of it!"

"The marchioness requests a difficult brew!" He defends.

"And rightly so." Arlene nods, "She'd had enough of these packaged brews. She's the one in charge of them, after all."

The said brew is a combination of fresh-picked leaves and berries, among others, found in the Kinsleigh greenhouse according to the marchioness' preference for the day. And based from the stories Gustav has heard from his fellow servants, it is always, if not often, a changing brew.

Gustav sighs. "I'm amazed the new help could do it upon the first try."

"She's hired new servants?" Alice asked, having heard nothing of the sort from her mother's letters.

"Just one." Arlene answered.

"When?"

"A little before you left for Paris, Miss Alice." Gustav replied. "But you wouldn't be able to tell, she was one of the groundskeepers, tending to the garden and the plantations."

Alice blinks. She couldn't believe it. "A groundskeeper make tea?"

"She's a natural at everything!" Arlene exclaims, quickly telling of her admiration for the newest servant, her face brightening up with every statement, "I asked her to help me polish the cutlery one time, and she made them sparkle like silver and gold! There was another time when she brought back those wilting marigolds to life… And she even managed to train those dogs!"

Alice knew their dogs to be masters of their own fate, to have a servant that managed to tame them… Her two years in Paris seemed long enough.

Alice is in awe of this new servant, and manages to comment, "She sounds quite reliable."

"That she is!" Arlene nods with a smile. "But I wonder how the marchioness came upon her…"

"We all do." Gustav punctuates.

"Some say she's of German descent." Arlene whispers scandalously.

"Italian." Gustva corrects.

"Spanish, perhaps?" Alice suggests.

Gustav responds with a definitive, "No matter her lineage, she's a servant of the Grandier household and that is all that matters."

Arlene blinks, but nods all the same.

Alice couldn't wait to return home and see how versatile the new servant is for herself.

* * *

The new servant in question is currently arranging flowers in one of the vases found in the east drawing room of the Kinsleigh estate, having persuaded the Grandier matriarch, Evelyn, into allowing her such the opportunity. She is Theresa von Borcken, a dark-haired, deep blue-eyed gardener hailing from Germany, or so she says. Evelyn watches this woman arrange blossoms in one of the plain vases, wanting to read past her amusement at doing such a menial, if not troublesome, task.

And suddenly, the dark-haired woman's pleasured expression twist into a sullen one, her hands jolting away from the flowers.

Theresa stiffens and meets Evelyn's eyes. "There's a foul scent in the air."

Evelyn feels a certain nervousness crawling past her skin, but she manages to brush it off with a remark, "I smell nothing but your flowers."

"No," She sniffs audibly, her face scrunching in revulsion. She mutters under her breath, "it's familiar."

Evelyn's gaze trails after Theresa's darting eyes. "What is it?" She asked cautiously.

Theresa stalks around the room, as if a dog trailing after a faded scent. Evelyn watches her, nervousness crawling past her skin and pooling within her belly. She's never seen the dark-haired woman like this before, and fear for the worst. But Theresa suddenly stops, clenches her fists and grits her teeth, eyes narrowed. Evelyn feels her breath catch in her throat.

"I've always disliked the smell of home." Theresa spat out.

Evelyn takes a step back in shock. "What do you mean?" She asked in a hushed voice.

Theresa speaks her next line with utmost clarity, her tone verging onto that of a predatory growl. "The young earl has with him one of my kind."

She meets Evelyn's brown eyes and the marchioness sees a flash of red in them. Of the nearly three years of having Theresa in her employment, she never once acted in this way before. Never had the dark-haired woman acted in a way quite like the day they had first met, on the day Evelyn had vowed to treat Theresa a normal human being, a normal human being with extraordinary talent for all things and a penchant for flowers.

The truth is that Theresa is a demon hailing from the foulest depths of Hell, but Theresa is an obedient demon, a patient demon who shows no sort of hunger for Evelyn's soul.

At least, not yet.

Evelyn stumbles on her own words then, a rare occurrence, but later manages to regain her composure and ask the demon, "The Phantomhives have in their employment a demon. What could this mean?"

To which Theresa answers immediately. "I do not know."

Impossible. Theresa should know something. Anything.

Evelyn steels herself and commands, "You must know something!"

"I do not." The demon repeats with the same dismissive tone.

The woman marches towards her and shouts at her face with all the command she could muster at the moment, "Liar!"

Theresa's irises transform into a hypnotic and dangerous shade of red, a warning of the power swimming beneath her calm exterior.

Evelyn is reminded of how easily the demon could end her life at that moment.

Theresa leans close to her and hisses, "Have I spoken anything but truth to you?"

No. Evelyn's voice catches in her throat, her heartbeat quickens and tears begin forming in her eyes.

At that sight of weakness, Theresa's terrifying expression reverts into a human one, that of a hurt mother's.

"Oh dear." She lowers her gaze. "I apologize for such rude behavior, my lady." She spoke with a defeated tone, reaching carefully for her, "I hope you forgive me."

Evelyn recoils, and takes a moment to regain her pride. She closes her eyes, breathes in deep. Inhales. Exhales.

She turns to the demon with a demand, "Then what would you have me do?"

Theresa smiles pleadingly. "Please allow me to stay by your side."

Evelyn reminds herself then, that Theresa is an obedient demon; she would never raise a hand against her own master.

* * *

At that same moment, the Phantomhive butler accompanying Ciel in the carriage frowns.

The young earl is not used to such an expression on him, and asks, "What is it, Sebastian?"

"There's a foul and familiar scent in the air." The butler murmured.

"Speak clearly." The child commanded.

Ah! Sebastian has it now. Only such a creature could produce such a foul odor.

He mutters disgustedly, "Those dogs…"

Several dogs' howling and barking could be heard within earshot. They were nearing the Kinsleigh estate.

"Ah, the tracking hounds." Ciel says thoughtfully, enjoying his butler's discomfort. "I forgot to mention that they had them." He smirks.

"No." Sebastian shakes his head slightly.

"Then what?" The boy demands, grunting at his butler's strange behavior.

Sebastian could only think of one answer. He places a finger on his chin in thought, voices out, "There must be another one of my kind here."

Ciel couldn't believe it. "Another demon?" He exclaimed in alarm.

If there was, then would it be related to that incident? How in the world would anyone come across a demon, anyway? Would his 'Aunt Evelyn' have something to do with the incident, then? Would he be one step closer to his revenge? A innumerable amount of questions appear in Ciel's head as a range of emotions come across his face, shock, fear, anger. And Sebastian notices all of these emotion, of course, even the slightest ones.

He is, after all, a demon of keen observation skills.

Ciel's expression darkens and Sebastian knows only one response to such a face.

The butler smiles as the carriage comes to a stop before the gates of the Kinsleigh estate. Two guards open the gates and the carriage enters without fanfare. Both Ciel and Sebastian notices the flourishing grounds through the corners of their eyes as the carriage passes in silence. Ciel notes how these plants are surprisingly well-kept, whilst Sebastian notes how the repugnant scent grows stronger.

The carriage stops in front of the manor, and Sebastian exits the carriage, concluding that the scent is coming from within the building.

"What do you wish for me to do, my lord?" He asks as he assists the young earl out of the carriage.

Ciel commands him as he eyes the building, "Stay close."

"Of course." He bows slightly to whisper to the boy's ear, "I wouldn't have them steal such a lovely soul."

The young earl scoffs, walking ahead of the demon with a clear and audible, "Bastard."

They approach the steps to the manor as the massive wooden door opens to reveal the Grandier matriarch herself.

"Greetings, Earl Phantomhive."

* * *

A/N: **Wow**. I'm actually excited for this one and hope you are just as excited as I am. Feedback will be very much appreciated.


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